When It Rains

Yesterday began and ended with dreary, drizzling rain. Our morning swim wasn't effected much, other than it being a little bit slippery and more expensive (rickshaw drivers hike up the price when you are sopping wet and pathetic). As we headed out of the sports complex in a drippy attempt to hail a rickshaw to take us back home for Physio, Michael uttered the comment that it was going to be a long day... I had no idea he meant for me as well!

The rain has never been a good source for stalling my vision, so shortly after lunch I headed out with Erin to the market to get some pants made. We stopped at a small shop that I had had a pair of pants copied the week earlier. I warned Erin of the hassle that might await us, seeing as no one in the shop speaks much English, and the small detail that I think that the tailor doesn't think that I ever paid. This turned out to be more of a problem that I had anticipated... poor naive me.

The entire shop is the size of an apartment bathroom in New York City. All 4 walls covered floor to ceiling in folds of fabrics. Reds, blues, greens, yellows, teals, violets, flower patterns, polka dots, argyle, and more flowers. The shop had neglected inviting in visitors that may exceed a size thicker than a toothpick, so a lot of rearranging of furniture had to be made just to get my chair in the door. I was slowly greeted by the aged (yet semi-warm) owner of the store, his agile and nimble caddies of fabrics, and the crotchety tailor. Sounds like the 3 men in the tub, no?

I immediately began my prepared explanation of the pants I desired and how they needed to be cut and stitched. As soon as words started coming from my mouth so did my universal language of charades. Stopping myself after only a few gestures, I noticed that the tailor was not really receiving my attempt at the scissor portion of Rock, Paper, Scissors. I asked the old man at the front desk if he was okay because I had already wearily determined that he was the only one who could understand parts of my Hinglish. The old man said, "He say you no pay him last time." Was he serious? Was this just what these guys do to make a couple more bucks? It'd be okay to pay him another 8 dollar equivalent for the pants, they were really cheap... but it was principle, right?

Trying desperately to explain how I know that I paid, I think that my quiet game of charades became a little hostile. I told both men that I paid each of them separately and I remember that specifically, one for fabric and one for the stitching. There was going to be no convincing this guy. I even questioned him about my returning to the store and how it would be foolish if I had stiffed him before. Nope, nothing... not even the Hindi head-nod.

Finally I just had to leave. It was a good thing that Erin was with me. She not only helped to hold back my tears; but also to act as the scaffolding for my head, just barely managing to keep it on straight long enough to know when it was time to go.

Everything turned out for the best, minus the whole knowing-that-someone-thinks-you're-a-crook type thing. Erin and I found another shop that turned out to be cheaper, less accusatory, a fair more English savvy, and faster in turn-around.

And today I awoke to sunshine, knowing that there is always a silver lining... no matter how much it rains, how hard, or for how long. You just have to stick with your guns, your goals, and your friends to help pass the time until those stinkin' nimbus clouds pass by your troposphere above.